


hearsay

by thir13enth



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, gossiping as per usual, like you KNOW they would be, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thir13enth/pseuds/thir13enth
Summary: Hilda's favorite pastime is imagining the conversations going on around the dinner table. Claude's favorite pastime is her.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89





	hearsay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajstyling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajstyling/gifts).



> for **aj**. you know why.

The topic for Monday night is predictable.

Monday means a fresh and full shipment of ripe gossip and chatter from the weekend. And as naturally “curious” and devilishly “perceptive” people, both Claude and Hilda are particularly purview to the happenings plaguing their classmates’ dramatic lives. This means the two spend their dinners sorting out the stories from the sensation and corroborating the facts from the hints.

They take the same seats, sitting side-by-side at the table in the far corner of the mess hall facing everyone — their backs only to the stone wall behind them. This gives them a strategic vantage point, offering the ability to easily survey the entire room — from the kitchen workers on the other end of the hall to Bernadetta, who sits like a trapped mouse in the corner opposite from them, eyes darting around her for any potential incoming threats or scribbling madly on a stack of pages with well-worn edges.

This Monday evening, they sit, trays clacking down to the hardwood table and bodies slumping into the bench, one after the other like a drumbeat. Hilda lifts her right leg and crosses it over her left, and Claude stretches out his legs, triangulating her crossed legs. They eat their meals, exchanging pleasantries and at least getting a few bites into their meals before they start their review of the news.

It wouldn’t be classy if they just started their discussions at once, after all. Uncovering their classmates’ secrets is all part of a process, and they both know there’s more than enough time — and gossip — for many shared dinners to come.

Well, eating is _at least_ the intention, because the moment Claude sees Ferdinand pontificating a monologue — full-on in iambic pentameter and expressive hand gestures — he knocks his knee against Hilda’s.

“There goes Ferdinand making another appeal to Dorothea,” he chuckles, circling his fork in their general direction as he stabs a slice of carrot.

Hilda looks up mid-bite, in no way subtle at all, then quickly swallows her half-chewed food.

“Poor Dori,” Hilda frowns. “She looks like she’s in the third level of hell.”

“I am Ferdinand von Aegir, and I am a noble of the Adrestian Empire,” Claude impersonates on cue, pronouncing every single one of his consonants. “I implore that you recognize my desperate attempts to make you like me — as _everyone_ likes me and I can’t stand being alive knowing that I am not well-liked among all the people of Fódlan.”

Caught in the middle of a sip, Hilda tries to hold back her giggle, her arm shaking with quiet laughter. 

He waits for Hilda to take her water, then throws his voice up an octave. “Ferdinand, _please_ get out of my sight,” he mimics, with the pointed quips often punctuated Dorothea’s irritated voice.

Hilda’s glass of water clanks back down to the table. “You’re too good at this, Claude. You crack me up,” she cackles, observing them for a moment before turning her head back to him. “You know,” she remarks. “I actually think Dorothea is starting to warm up to him a little more.”

“I think you mean learning to tolerate.”

“You’re right,” Hilda agrees. “That is a better description. But look how her body isn’t completely turned away from him anymore.”

Claude does notice this, and Hilda’s right, as usual with her keen observations.

“Today, he’s boasting about his latest accomplishment — the cinnamon scones that he baked to drink alongside his tea this afternoon,” she says, swallowing another bite of food. “A little on the hard side but nevertheless a good crunch easily washed down with a hot liquid.”

“Well, let’s give him a little more credit,” Claude adds. “He went out of his way ask guidance from Mercedes, waiting until she was done with Sunday morning prayer, and then even recruited Rafael to taste-test the batter for him.”

“Right, right,” she says. “He also endured Hubert’s criticism of him every other hour about how inefficient he was being by spending time on desserts rather than his training. Not to mention, since he was already in the kitchen, he even later helped the professor in cooking a meal shortly afterward.”

“A very busy late afternoon for Ferdinand,” Claude replies, finding his attention straying to the table just off to the left of Ferdinand and Dorothea.

A pair of heads, silver and black hair, catches Claude’s eye. He points his chin to Edelgard and Hubert, whose backs are to them. "What about them?" he asks.

Hilda glances over in their direction. "Oh," she replies, with a half roll of her eyes. "You know those two are the toughest to break. I haven't heard a single word of anything remotely useful from either of them — but that's probably because Hubert does all the talking. I can’t even get so much of a greeting from Edelgard whenever he’s around. And I can’t even single her out with the bathroom excuse because she only uses the one attached to her room."

"He doesn't trust you," Claude says, without a blink, watching the to-be Empress and her vassal. Without a turn of his head, he looks back at Hilda. "You know what they say: the looser the lips, the tighter the words.”

Hilda’s eyebrows furrow and she gives him a funny look. "What's that even supposed to mean? And who's _they_? You always come up with the strangest proverbs, you know."

He shrugs. "I'm old and wise,” he simply replies, giving her a lazy grin.

Her eyes slightly narrow in response, but unable to read him, she looks back over at Edelgard and Hubert. “They’re probably discussing about their next scheme,” she hypothesizes. “Edelgard wants to take action against her newfound nemesis — the Professor’s latest admirer. Edelgard is deliberating whether she wants to take them out with unnumbered days of diarrhea or a thirst that can never be quenched so that she could prevent them from getting any closer with the Professor.”

“Lady Edelgard,” Claude says in a low and hoarse voice — his closest imitation of Hubert. “If you have need rid of this person, there are much more… satisfying ways than tricks and poison. I can personally provide these methods very violently, but very secretly and surreptitiously.”

Hilda chortles, covering her mouth. "You always do the best voice impressions, you know."

He doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t have the talent for it as his father does, but Claude grants his ego to take the compliment. He only does it because it makes her laugh.

As her giggling subsides, Hilda notices his dinner plate, also clear. “Dessert?” she offers.

Bemused, he returns a smile. “ _You_?” he returns. “Putting yourself up for the tough responsibility of getting dessert?”

“Well, I figured I’d just _pass by_ Edelgard and Hubert on my way there,” Hilda says, cupping her chin between her thumb and index finger contemplatively and innocently batting her eyelashes. “And I’m a little less conspicuous than you, wouldn’t you say?”

“With your pink hair, pink nails, loud heels and that luxurious-smelling perfume? Sure. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

She gives him an emphatic frown. “More than you,” she retorts. “Plus, I’m more charming.”

“More charming than _me_?” he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “I would have never thought.”

“Also, I can’t trust you to choose the right dessert.”

“You wound me, Hilda.”

She winks at him then sees herself off, popping up from the table and sashaying her merry way to the front of the mess hall. Claude feels a small smile stretch across his lips as he sees her very intentionally swing by Hubert and Edelgard — ever so casually, as if simply taking the shortest route to dessert.

Hubert immediately picks up on this because he snaps his head back over his shoulder to where Claude is, assessing if Hilda’s passing behind them was necessary at all. Edelgard leans back so that she can see around Hubert’s body. Both meet eyes with Claude — but that’s only because he lets them.

He smiles and blows a kiss in their direction, which is enough to make Edelgard immediately look away. She jabs Hubert in the ribs — “Stop looking!” he can imagine her whispering — making Hubert turn his glare away from Claude.

Around this time, Hilda comes back into his view, her characteristic pigtails bobbing with each step. She carries a bowl in both hands, each with a different dessert.

“You couldn’t even choose!” he immediately shoots at her.

“Oh, hush,” she tells him. “I mean, really, would _you_ have been able to choose between ice cream and cake? Why not both?” She places the bowls between the two of them, handing him a spoon.

He takes a scoop of the ice cream first. “So was your investigation any success?”

She waves her hand at him. “They're probably chatting away about how to crush their next victory," she says. "You know the Black Eagles house is always up to something.” She huffs, carving out a piece of cake from the bowl. “And unfortunately, as loose as Caspar's mouth is, he never actually has any idea of what is going on in his own house."

Claude swallows thoughtfully. "You're still fucking him?" he asks, maybe a little blunter than he would have liked.

Hilda turns to him, bewildered. "Claude," she exclaims. "Your _language_!"

He gives her a stiff smile, then studies her face for a moment. "You are."

“It's not that serious,” she defends. She pauses a moment, thinking to herself before she takes a spoon of ice cream. "Also, it's weird talking about this with you,” she says, turning her head away from him.

Claude also takes some ice cream. "Why?" he presses.

She doesn't answer the question, focused on another set of their classmates. “There those three go again, bickering among themselves as per usual.”

He decides to drop the subject, shifting his eyes over to the three afore-referenced: Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix. They are indeed talking — very passionately — among each other, as they usually were.

After another bite of dessert, Hilda spins a story. “Sylvain is bragging about his latest lady conquest, but before he even gets to the details of what she looks like, Ingrid scolds him immediately, telling him that his behavior is shameful and dishonorable. But once she says that, Felix decides he’s has had enough of that holier-than-thou talk and he snaps at them,” she says, bouncing the end of her spoon to point back at Ingrid. “Then Ingrid gets defensive and starts criticizing him. And then Sylvain comes back into the argument to tell her she’s being difficult. And then they just go around and around again,” she concludes, spinning her spoon in a circle. “And poor Ashe, sitting right next to them and pretending like he can’t hear a single word they’re shouting. His dinner time is ruined.”

Claude laughs once. “They’ll never change,” he sighs, before he spots Flayn hurriedly approaching the Professor. “What do you think Flayn wants to chat about today?” he asks.

Hilda’s answer comes just as Flayn opens her mouth. “Fish,” she replies, completely deadpan.

He snorts. Hilda’s timing is impeccable.

“And the professor is enthused as ever about hearing about striped bass. You can really see how excited she is about the topic,” Hilda adds. “You can just tell because of how she blinks her eyes and nods occasionally. _So much_ more expressive.”

“She probably just doesn’t want to get in trouble with Seteth.”

Hilda’s eyebrows raise. “You know I overheard Flayn arguing with him the other day.”

He leans his ear closer to her. “You can’t just say that and not elaborate, Hilda.”

“It was nothing substantially incriminating,” she assures him. “She was just telling him to stop intimidating everyone. She simply wants to get to know her classmates.”

“Daddy, I am a fully grown woman!” Claude mocks in a high pitch at the limit of vocal cords. “And no one here in this monastery wants my blood!”

This makes Hilda laugh, almost uncontrollably. She leans back, wrapping her arms around her stomach. Seeing this makes him smile. He loves when he makes her laugh like she can’t contain herself.

She eventually titters down to a chuckle. “And you’re certain that Seteth is her father and not just her older brother?” she asks, wiping a small tear from her eye.

He shrugs. “Just a gut feeling,” he says. “I haven’t confronted Flayn about it, but I will.”

“Promise you’ll keep me updated.”

“If I know it, you know it,” Claude assures her. “You’re the other half of my scheming brain, after all.”

“Good,” she replies, giving him a warm smile, which he easily returns.

Claude’s eyes scan the rest of the mess hall. Annette sitting with Mercedes, cheerfully chatting as best friends do. Ignatz quietly sketching in his sketchbook, pausing only to look out the window. Rafael and Caspar shoveling food into their mouths, probably in yet another competition. Linhardt watching the both of them with half-lidded eyes. Dimitri eating in a proper and stepwise fashion and next to him, Dedue who waits for Dimitri to finish a bite before he eats again so as to not finish eating before the incoming prince.

His eyes return to Hilda, whose attention now seems occupied by the pink gloss on her middle finger. She chips at it with her other hand.

"Don't do that," he says gently.

She immediately stops, looking at him. "What?" she challenges. "Telling _me_ what to do? You should know better, Claude."

He does know better. He knows he'll never get her to do anything — she's too free-spirited, and he's too permissive, especially when it comes to her.

"It's a nervous tick of yours," he simply states.

She gives him a smile, as if surprised that he’s this forward in saying this, but not surprised that he’s noticed. "So it is," she affirms, stretching out her fingers to look at her nails instead.

She’s already scratched off half the color from her middle finger.

“What are you nervous about?” he asks.

This question catches her off-guard. She doesn’t answer it.

"Well,” she replies. “It's already been a couple of days already, and I don't like this color on me. So I’m just saving myself some time for later when I eventually remove it.”

"I like that color on you," he tells her.

"Yeah, but I don't," she says, putting her hand down to pick at the color again. 

He doesn't say anything, instead quietly watches her. 

After a few more seconds of his silence, she stops and looks back at him. "Maybe I'll wear this color again another time," she tells him, almost in negotiation. "Since you like it so much."

“I do,” he confesses.

She sits on her hands then, as if preventing herself from picking at her nails more, and stares at an indefinite space on the table. He watches her for a little while longer before opening his mouth again.

"You know, Hilda..." he says, leaning closer to her. "We spend all this time figuring out what everyone else is talking about. Have you ever thought about what others think looking at us?"

She looks back at him with a smirk. “Oh, I think everyone knows we’re gossiping about them,” she replies. “They’re all just jealous because we’re having such a fun time doing it.”

“You really think we’re that obvious?”

She looks at him like he’s an idiot, furrowing her eyebrows and giving him a crooked smile. “Well, we sit here together every dinner — far away from the rest of our house in this corner just giggling to ourselves… of course people would think we’re talking about them. And if not, they’re at least curious about what we’re talking about.” She pauses for a moment, before she leans in closer, raising her eyebrows. “In fact, I can imagine some people might think we _like_ each other.”

“That we _like_ each other?” he asks, feeling his heart quicken.

He plays it off.

“Well, with me as handsome as I am, I can’t imagine you _not_ liking me,” he says, straightening his back and puffing out his chest.

“Don’t give yourself that much credit.”

“I shouldn’t,” he agrees. “Especially since I pale in comparison to your beauty.”

He gives her a wink. She crosses her arms in response.

“Are you imitating Sylvain, or are you very poorly attempting to have as much charm as him?”

“You’re right,” he parries. “There’s absolutely no way you could like a guy like me with so little charm and absolutely horrible taste in dessert choice.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” she says, punctuating with a jab to his chest.

“Honestly, how could _anyone_ think we like each other?” he replies.

“Yes, what a revelation that would be for people to know that we don’t, huh?” she drawls. “I guess they’ll never figure out the real reason why we’re always together for dinner.”

“And what’s the real reason?”

Hilda simply gives him a smile. “Guess they’ll just have to ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> idk this piece got chaotic. hopefully i’ve done them justice!
> 
> you know where to find me:  
> twitter @ napsbeforesleep  
> discord @ ahumanintraining#2153


End file.
